Beer Mats and Dance Tours
by jesterjessie
Summary: Life in New York isn't exactly what Santana expected it to be. 'Her thoughts often strayed to McKinley when she worked music nights, back to when she'd actually meant something, been someone other than one of the thousands of young hopefuls whose dreams had been crushed beneath the skyscrapers.'
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Still don't own Glee, despite asking to on my Christmas list...

**Author's note: **In this story, the Brittana break up still happened; however, Brittany's relationship with Sam ended towards the end of January, fizzling out as she realised she'd rather have him as a best friend than a boyfriend. Santana and Brittany, after much talking, officially got back together at the start of their spring break and have been together ever since.

* * *

"...Why don't you come on over, Valeri-i-i-ie?"

Santana grinned as the crowd erupted into applause, hollering and calling for an encore. Sure, it was only a small bar, one of many that littered New York, yet it drew quite an audience on its weekly live music nights, locals and tourists alike cramming in for a chance to see the next big thing before their career really kicked off.

"Thank you, thank you, you've been amazing tonight..." She winced as the guitarist tripped over the microphone lead, a piercing sound filling the bar as it was tugged slightly out of its socket. Blushing underneath the playful glares being sent his way, the guitarist plugged it back in hurriedly, no desire to take the attention away from the singer's big moment. "I'm afraid we can't do any more songs, that's our time up for this week, but hopefully we'll be ba-.."

"Two beers and a rum and coke, no ice." Santana jumped, the gruff voice dragging her attention away from the singer still busy thanking the crowd to the customer leaning on the bar. Nodding, she fixed the man's drinks as quickly as possible and gratefully accepted the change as a tip; she knew it was more to do with the fact she'd worn a lower cut top tonight than because of her service but hey, a tip's a tip.

The brunette had no time to watch the band traipse off the stage as people crowded the bar, trying to get a drink before the next act came on. Drink order after drink order was thrown at her as people leant on the bar, trying to get served ahead of anyone else; the tactic never worked as Santana often left the more obnoxious customers till last, but who was she to stop them if they wanted to ruin their clothes by leaning on the sticky bar? She hated the crowd on live music nights ('And you hate the fact that you're behind the bar instead of on the stage' whispered the bitter voice at the back of her mind, the one she could never fully ignore), the polite regulars that took the time to chat replaced by tourists and arrogant music fans with little care for those serving their drinks.

Santana shot a glare along the bar at the other girl on her shift in between mixing what felt like her thousandth drink of the night and fetching two beers for a particularly irritating customer in a rather disgusting shirt. Hummel probably would have bleached his eyes after seeing it. Alyssa, the owner's daughter, had made it clear from their very first shift together that she couldn't stand the 'snarky bitch from Ohio'; she seemed to have made it her life's work to do as little as possible whenever the two were on shift together, preferring instead to flirt with her god-awful boyfriend at the end of the bar, knowing that her family links meant she'd never get fired. Honestly, she didn't know why Alyssa didn't just ask her dad to never put them on the same shift, though it was probably because Santana would never complain about how little work she did. Both of them knew the Latina needed the job more than she wanted to complain, and it just wasn't worth the risk.

* * *

She sighed wearily as the next act began to play, the crowd turning away from the bar to watch some electro band she really couldn't care less about, and grabbed a bottle of water from one of the fridges. Pausing only to mutter quickly to Alyssa that she was taking a break, she stalked out through the back of the bar to the stock room, tapping her back pocket to make sure her pack of cigarettes hadn't fallen out.

She'd had to downgrade from cigars. Too expensive.

She pulled open the door that led out onto an alley and leant in the doorway to watch the rain drizzling miserably outside, lighting a cigarette with practised hands before frowning at the near emptiness of the packet, resolving to buy another on her route home. She really ought to give up the habit, her nicotine addiction eating into what little money she had left after paying her share of the rent and bills each month, yet she'd become so dependent on it recently to relieve her stress that she couldn't bear the idea of quitting.

She took a large puff of the cigarette before blowing out the smoke in a steady stream, her phone vibrating with a new message as she did. Sighing, she pulled it out of her pocket, thumb sliding to unlock the phone; she half expected it to be Alyssa, bitching at her to get back inside because there was a customer who needed serving. That had happened before...

'Te echo de menos y te quiero. B x'

Warmth shot through Santana as she read and re-read Brittany's text, the corners of her mouth pulling up into a small smile at the simple message. She'd never understood the blonde's ability to do that, to momentarily help Santana to forget all the crap going on in her life with just a few words or a soft smile, yet it was times like these where she was most grateful for it. Her girlfriend always seemed to sense when she was feeling particularly low, whether the two were lying in bed 'star-gazing' (Brittany hated not being able to see the stars because of all the city lights, so had stuck glow-in-the-dark plastic replicas all over their bedroom ceiling) or separated by thousands of miles.

It was nice to hear that Brittany missed her, that she wasn't too busy to forget about Santana, but it didn't change the fact that the blonde was halfway round the world. At that thought, her smiled dropped, the thoughts that had been plaguing her throughout her entire shift returning, and she slipped her phone back into her pocket while taking another long drag of her cigarette. She couldn't help but be a little envious of Brittany, currently in London dancing back-up on some generic pop sensation's world tour. Serving beers was never the career path on which she'd expected to end up.

Everything had gone Brittany's way, from the moment the two had made it to New York. Santana had dropped out of Louisville after a year (with her parents' blessing - they expected it to happen, her father had told her, and were just glad she'd given college a try first) to move to the city with Brittany around a month after the blonde's graduation. They'd thrown themselves into trying to 'build their dream', Brittany trekking back and forth across the city for dance auditions while Santana contacted what felt like every bar she could find that held a live music or open mic night in the hope of performing; but, while Santana had received very positive few responses, forcing her into picking up several jobs to pay her half of the rent (the money her mother had given her would only stretch so far), the blonde had found that every choreographer, director or musician she danced for was desperate to get her onto their projects. Quite the buzz had grown around Brittany. Santana had accompanied her to enough parties to learn that those in the know considered her a rising star in the industry and, in the words of one particularly important choreographer (tongue loosened by the unlimited champagne), 'the best thing I've seen in fucking forever'.

Only Brittany's complete innocence kept her jealousy in check. The blonde had never expected things to be as easy for her as they had been, and was often bewildered by her success. She'd even confessed, murmuring quietly in the Latina's ear as she sat behind her in a bath ready for the minute Santana trudged through the door after working a closing shift (she'd nearly cried at the gesture), that she was sure it would be the other way round, that Santana's career would take off while she struggled to get anything from her auditions. "It'll happen soon," Brittany had whispered softly as the brunette relaxed in her arms. "Soon someone will see just how awesome you are and give you your chance."

Yet here she was, four years after moving to New York: waitress and shop assistant by day, bartender by night.

'Coach Sylvester would be so fucking proud' she scoffed internally, shaking off the ash collecting at the end of her cigarette before taking another drag. Her thoughts often strayed to McKinley when she worked music nights, back to when she'd actually meant something, been someone other than one of the thousands of young hopefuls whose dreams had been crushed beneath the skyscrapers. She could only imagine how scathing some of her former classmates would be if they saw what she'd been reduced to, though she wasn't sure if it would be better or worse than the traces of sympathy, and even pity, she sometimes caught in the faces of the former Glee club members whenever they saw each other. Brittany still insisted they were all a family, and that families kept in touch, so they made sure to see all of the group throughout the year, some more regularly than others. She hated their annual Skype call with Rory - turns out the Irish boy was even harder to understand through a computer, and she often gave up after the sixth or so time his screen went blank, muttering darkly about 'fucking technologically incompetent leprechauns'.

She was Santana fucking Lopez, she thought bitterly as she stubbed out her cigarette against the brick doorway. She neither wanted nor needed their sympathy; so she was working crappy jobs instead of singing? Not everybody had as easy a route to their dream career, but at least she still had her girlfriend and a nice enough apartment (they could have afforded somewhere much nicer with Brittany's earnings, but Santana had felt guilty about not paying her fair share, so they'd adjusted their search to include places where the brunette could afford half the rent). If she just kept her thoughts fixed on that, rather than dwelling on where she thought she'd be by now, she could at least make it to the safety of her own bed before breaking down.

"Santana! Get back in here, there's customers that want serving!" screeched Alyssa, her nasal voice shattering the silence Santana stood in. Sighing, she closed the alley door, slamming it shut harder than necessary in an effort to keep herself from hitting the other girl. God forbid she do an ounce of work tonight... She stopped just before exiting the stock room, taking a moment to collect herself as she fixed a smile on her face before walking back out into the onslaught of orders waiting for her.

* * *

Stifling a yawn with the post clenched tightly in her hand, Santana unlocked the door to her apartment, wincing as the sound of it banging off the hall wall reverberated around her already aching head. Wearily stepping inside, she blindly pushed the door closed behind her before making her way through the small open-plan apartment to drop the post on the dining table, pushed against wall after Brittany had danced into it one too many times. The bills could wait until tomorrow morning; they would really put her in the right frame of mind to deal with fussy diners and customers who were adamant that no, that shirt really had been ripped when they bought it.

Her stomach grumbled noisily, abnormally loud against the silence of the apartment; it had taken a few weeks to get used to the quietness after Brittany left, but after four months she had somewhat adjusted to it (spending as little time as possible in the apartment probably helped). She hadn't grabbed anything to eat since...actually, she couldn't remember eating anything all day. Her alarm had decided to run out of battery during the night and it had thrown her whole day out of joint. She'd had to get changed in the stock room of the diner after sprinting to get to her to shift on time; still, it had been worth it just to see the irritating high-schooler who worked the till faint at the sight of her in a bra, having unwittingly stumbled upon her halfway through changing.

She smirked at the memory. The ego boost had been nice.

The egg that had ended up on her top later that afternoon because of some brat's tantrum, however...not so much.

Their answering machine flashed obnoxiously from the counter as she walked into the kitchen area, meaning to fix herself a small snack before bed. 5 new messages, read the small screen; maybe Brittany had rung while she'd been at work. She missed talking to her girlfriend, conversations a lot less interesting without the blonde around, and she tried to not to fell guilty that she hadn't caught her call as she pressed play.

"Yo, lezbro! It's Puck...listen, I'm gonna be in town in two weeks time, can I crash at-... _message deleted_."

"Hola, mija. Your father and I were just wondering if you and Brittany are planning to vi- _message deleted_."

"Hey, San, it's Quinn. Wanted to know what day Britt gets back, Rach and I were thinking di- _message_ _deleted_."

"Hello. This is Rick from the Sundown Bar for Santana Lopez. Unfortunately, we have no openings for singers at the moment, but thanks for your interest in performing at the b- _message_ _deleted_."

"Sanny!" Santana grinned, tiredness lifting at the sound of her girlfriend's voice. "I can't wait to bring you to London one day! They have like a giant ferris wheel in the middle of the city, it's so much fun...we went on it earlier today, you can see for miles..." She grinned at the excitement in the blonde's voice, imagining her pressed up against the glass of the London Eye, eyes wide as she took in the view - she'd been exactly the same their first time up the Empire State Building. "...and everyone here has really funny accents, like that guy who works at the diner with you. We went to see a football match earlier, except it wasn't really football, it was soccer...why do they have to confuse everybody like that? Oh, oh, and I had a pint at lunch! It was a really disgusting beer, but James said it was like an English tradit- _end of message. To hear the message again, press 1_."

She growled in frustration. The first thing she was going to do when Brittany got back was break that fucking phone. Well, obviously it wasn't the first thing (she'd spent some of her more boring shifts obsessively planning every detail of their first week back together), but the amount of calls that it had cut short was ridiculous. It was almost worse than not hearing from her girlfriend, in a way, hearing her voice for only a few sentences before she was cut off. Sighing, she deleted the message and made her way to the bedroom, no longer hungry.

She glanced at the clock as she undressed, throwing her clothes lazily into the chair in the corner of the room. It was nearly 3 am, which meant it was nearly 8 in London. She knew the time differences between New York and every stop on the tour by heart, and during one particular alcohol-and-loneliness fuelled breakdown not long after her girlfriend had left, she'd recited them all repeatedly to Quinn, who very much regretted being on Santana-duty that night. Her laptop still sat on Brittany's pillow from their goodnight/good morning chat yesterday, facing the Latina's side of the bed so they could pretend they were lying next to each other. She slid beneath the covers, lying on her side to look at the screen as she logged into Skype, calling her girlfriend as soon as she saw she was online.

"Hey, Britt-Britt."

"Heya, baby," grinned the blonde, rubbing the last traces of sleep from her eyes. "How was your day?"

She shrugged. "Same old, same old. Some little shit threw egg on my top at the diner and there was a folk singer with the most irritating voice at the bar...seriously, he sounded like a mix between a dying cat and a smoke alarm that's running out of power. Ugh. Apart from that, nothing else to report..."

Brittany nodded, her smile dropping slightly, but she chose not to comment on the bitterness that seeped into her girlfriend's voice at the mention of music night, not when she wasn't there to comfort her. "Were you working with Alyssa tonight?" she asked. Anybody who hadn't known Brittany for a long time would have been shocked by the hard edge to the usually calm girl's question, and the sour expression that flashed across her face, yet she disliked Santana's co-worker even more than Alyssa disliked Santana. It was often harder to stop Brittany charging into the bar and complaining about the girl's behaviour than it was to stop herself from stabbing the girl with a corkscrew (how many times she found herself wishing she still carried razor-blades...).

"No, it was some new hire...some guy called, uh, Duncan," she replied, feeling only the slightest twinge of guilt over lying as she watched the smile return to the blonde's face. "So, how was your show last night? Only a few left now, right?" she asked, as if she hadn't been crossing each date off the giant list taped to the bedroom wall.

Brittany smirked knowingly - Santana didn't know Quinn had told her about the checklist - and nodded. "It was fantastic, as always. I don't think I'll ever get over the buzz of dancing in front of a crowd, doing what I love in front of so many..." The dancer winced, not meaning to sound like she was bragging, but Santana nodded for her to continue, a tight smile on her face. "Um, yeah, so...There's only three more shows left...we're going to Dublin tonight for the show tomorrow then two back here next week, so I'll be home next Friday!"

A week tomorrow. She didn't think she'd be able to sit still for the next eight days, arms ready to fling themselves back round her girlfriend.

Just as she opened her mouth to reply, another female voice cut her off on the blonde's end. She couldn't really tell what was being said, but from the frown forming on Brittany's face, it seemed she was being summoned somewhere urgently. Her heart plummeted; first a broken-off phone call, and now she doesn't even get to finish her daily chat with her girlfriend?

"I'm sorry, San," she muttered, a crestfallen look painted across her face. Despite the distractions of dancing and travelling, the separation was just as hard for Brittany as it was for the brunette stuck in New York. "There's been a change to the set list for tomorrow's show, so we need to go learn some new choreography..." she explained, trailing of guiltily.

"I...it's okay, babe. You go do what you need to, I'll text you later."

"Okay...have a good sleep, San. I love you."

"Love you too, Britt. Bye..." She swallowed thickly as she ended the call, slamming her laptop shut before rolling onto her back. Tears pricked in the corners of her eyes as she gazed up at the plastic stars, her thoughts still three and a half thousand miles away with Brittany.

'Just eight more days. You can do this,' she told herself, eventually drifting into a restless sleep.

* * *

**Author's note: **So, what do you think? I'm still new to this (seriously new...this is only my second story) so I'd love to hear any of your thoughts.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **Still don't own Glee. Ryan Murphy's ignoring my letters asking for control of the show...

**Author's note:** Sorry it's taken so long! Holidays are hectic and then I re-wrote the entire middle third several times because I'm fussy with my own work... Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

"Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!"

Santana groaned as she was dragged back to consciousness and slid a hand from beneath the covers to switch off the alarm, silencing the shrill recording of Brittany's voice (one of the blonde's various attempts at helping her girlfriend overcome her hatred of mornings). Gritting her teeth, she threw back the covers and clambered out of bed tiredly, a yawn escaping her lips; she hadn't slept well at all, her night plagued by dreams of being left behind by Brittany and their friends, excluded from their successful lives. And now, just to make everything that little bit worse, on the one morning this week she could have slept in (she'd been covering as many shifts as possible recently so she could spend more time with Brittany once she returned), not due into work until midday, she'd forgotten to change her alarm from its usual setting of 7:30am.

"Just fucking perfect," she muttered bitterly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she made her way to the bathroom, ignoring her laptop as it sat in Brittany's pillow. Her clothes were tossed unceremoniously into a heap in the corner of the bathroom before she climbed into the shower, slamming the door shut behind her. There was, after all, no blonde to worry about waking.

* * *

Damp hair tied into a messy bun, the brunette trudged into the kitchen, feet instinctively carrying her to the coffee machine perched on the counter (handed over by her father with a knowing look the day they moved into their first apartment) as her brain struggled to pull itself from its early morning fog without the aid of caffeine. She glanced around the kitchen as the machine whirred, frowning at the mess scattered over the counters, the plates stacked precariously next to the sink and the embarrassingly large quantity of empty bottles next to the bin. Her liver ached just looking at them.

High school Santana would have been impressed.

She stacked the dishwasher between sips of coffee, a look of disgust etched onto her face at the state of some the plates. Brittany would have been horrified, obsessed as she was with having a clean kitchen, but Santana had found herself becoming less preoccupied with trivial things like hygiene during her girlfriend's absence. If anything, a colony of bacteria would have provided some company in the lonely apartment. Still, her early wake-up provided the perfect opportunity to clean the kitchen before tonight; it was her turn to host the weekly drinks night with Quinn and Rachel (rarely the same night two weeks running due Santana's job at the bar), a tradition she'd clung to fiercely in Brittany's absence, and she really wasn't in the mood to deal with a lecture on cleanliness from Quinn (she still blamed the journalist for her girlfriend's obsession), or pitying looks of understanding from Rachel. Draining the last of what promised to be the first of many cups this morning, she pulled on one of Brittany's jumpers before taking out the trash, her residual frustration over the previous night's ruined Skype call worked out as she forced it down the chute.

Kicking the front door shut behind her, Santana fetched her laptop and the post she'd collected last night before returning to the kitchen, perching on a kitchen stool as she poured herself another cup of coffee, slightly larger than the last at the sight of several thick bills. She'd never realised just how much of her adult life would be spent giving other people her money; not for the first time, she found herself wishing she was back in high school as she sorted the bills into two piles, those that needed paying immediately and those that could wait. Several envelopes were addressed to Brittany, invitations to important parties judging by their fancy designs; presumably the dancer's name was once again being included in guest lists now she was due back in the country. Though the brunette knew she would be Brittany's plus one to each of the events, she couldn't stop the pangs of jealousy that rushed through her as she set the envelopes aside, annoyed that her girlfriend had neglected to mention them (the postal invitations were merely a chance for the hosts to show off, guests aware they were invited weeks in advance); Brittany withholding things because she feared Santana's reaction hurt more than the pitying of the former Glee club members, while simultaneously wracking her with guilt over every stab of envy.

She sighed heavily, her focus drifting from the post to her laptop as she opened her emails, hoping Brittany had found the time to send her a short message. Disappointment coursed through her once the page loaded, her inbox filled with the usual mix of spam, email subscriptions and messages from friends but empty of any contact from the blonde. Sipping her coffee, she began to make her way through them: six emails with the word 'Viagra' in the subject box, all deleted quickly with a small snort; another message from Puck asking to sleep on their couch (no, she wrote back, not after I woke up to you fucking some redhead on my couch the last time you stayed); two emails from Quinn containing links to articles she thought the Latina would find interesting; and one from Rachel about the latest animal welfare campaign she was involved in. Santana had learnt to delete those emails immediately after she was somehow bullied into spending an entire day handing out leaflets in Central Park at the height of summer last year...

Dressed as a whale.

The diminutive singer had bought Santana drinks for an entire month to make up for it.

Lifting her arms above her head, she stretched out the remaining stiffness in her back as her eyes scanned the rest of her emails before stopping at one from Mercedes sent yesterday, her interest sufficiently piqued by the words _'New song, Satan!_' in the subject box to open it.

_Hi, Satan. How's things? And when is that dancer of yours back in the country?! __I've attached the file of a new song I recorded this week. You know the drill, I won't approve it until I hear what you think... Where would I be without your brutally honest critique? __Much love, W x_

Santana chuckled, still amused that Mercedes signed off her emails as Wheezy. She appreciated every time the singer involved her in her career, touched by how much her opinions (both positive and negative) were valued. It had led to quite the argument between Mercedes and her record label during the release of her first album; her management felt that a dedication to Satan on the album sleeve didn't portray the best image to her fan base... In fact, she appreciated everything the diva was doing for her, her jealousy tamped down through gratitude. She knew, through Brittany, that Mercedes showed her managers videos of Santana performing as often as she could, but unfortunately she didn't yet have enough clout at the label, despite the success of her debut record, to secure anything for the brunette.

Turning up the volume on her laptop, Santana opened the file, frowning after the first few seconds. This was much more mechanical-sounding than what she was expecting, more akin to the dubstep craze of their senior year than Mercedes' usual soulful style...and, was that the sound of water in the background? She wondered briefly if the singer had attached the wrong file before deciding to close and reopen it, suspecting it just hadn't loaded correctly. Her frown deepened when the sound didn't disappear once she closed the file, and her eyes flicked around the kitchen in search of the source.

"Shit!" she shouted, slipping off her stool as her eyes widened in panic at the flood of water spreading across the floor from the dishwasher. She stumbled to the machine on shaky legs, curses slipping through her lips in both Spanish and English as she switched it off, before she hurried to her bedroom to grab some dirty towels to soak up the mess. Tears pricked at the corner of her eyes once they were laid down, a lump forming in her throat; her hands flew to her mouth just as the first sob escaped and her shoulders shook as her tears began to fall. What was this? She shouldn't be dealing with broken dishwashers while most of her friends enjoyed their success. She shouldn't have to debate who to call first, the repairman or one of the jobs she so desperately needed to keep to tell them she would be late. She shouldn't need to worry about what Brittany was doing right now, whether she would be free to transfer some money into their joint account just so Santana could pay to have the stupid machine fixed... What had happened to her life?

* * *

"It's open!" Santana called at the knocking on the front door, nodding in greeting at Quinn and Rachel as the couple stepped inside before continuing to slice limes in the kitchen. The hosts always decided the drinks, and she had a rather nice bottle of tequila (a gift from her boss at the bar after she volunteered to clean up on Monday morning after a private function the night before) just waiting to be opened...

Tossing their coats onto the dining table, the two made their way to the kitchen area, Rachel dropping a grocery bag filled with snacks on the counter while Quinn searched the cupboards for bowls.

"Shit, S, what happened? Did someone with OCD break in?" she asked with a chuckle, emptying several packs of crisps into the bowls. "I've not seen the kitchen so clean in months..."

"Rachel," Santana muttered in a bored tone, absently throwing a lime at Quinn, which the former cheerleader caught with a smirk, "kindly tell your girlfriend that if she says one more word about my kitchen, I'll sneak whiskey into all her drinks tonight...we all know how well that ends." The shorter brunette rolled her eyes, her amusement betrayed by the small smile playing about her lips. Though she'd initially been shocked by how harsh the two seemed to be with each other, she'd soon learnt that bickering and light-hearted teasing comprised a large part of the pair's interactions. Her respect for Brittany had grown tenfold after seeing the two together and learning to tell when they were truly angry with each other; she'd never understand how the dancer coped during their vicious and spiteful high school years.

"Now now, Santana, you know better than to involve me in your childish squabbling. Honestly, it's like Brittany and I are your mothers, not your girlfriends," she scolded playfully, carrying the tequila and glasses through to the living room at the Latina's silent request. "And you know I should be saving my voice, what with opening night coming in little over a week, not straining it to make myself heard over you two."

Pulling open the fridge, Santana rolled her eyes at the latest mention of Rachel's new show. She understood the Jewish girl was excited ("You only debut on Broadway once, Santana."), and was secretly proud of the girl who'd wormed her way into her life, yet the constant reminders were both tiring and jealousy-inducing; she must have heard about the show at least twice a day for the past six weeks. Santana could only assume it was a near-constant topic of conversation in the Fabray-Berry household, though she knew Quinn was too whipped to say anything.

Not that she was in any position to gloat. One pout from Brittany had had her standing in the rain for six hours to buy tickets for Britney Spears's latest comeback tour.

(Neither Santana nor Quinn knew that their girlfriends had begun a secret competition over what they could get their girlfriends to do. The Britney tickets had put the dancer in the lead.)

"Alright then, bitches," Santana began, setting down the ingredients for margaritas and a cocktail shaker on the coffee table before she flopped onto the sofa, proceeding to pour out a shot of tequila for each of them. "I've had to deal with a broken dishwasher and two would-be shoplifters today, and I haven't held my girlfriend in four months, so drinks night has officially begun!"

* * *

Glasses long abandoned, Santana took a swig from the near-empty bottle before passing it to Quinn, sprawled across the other half of the sofa, as she lazily flicked through TV channels, settling on a programme for only a few minutes before moving. The blonde nudged her when a fashion show flickered onto the screen, drunkenly judging other people's clothes a favourite past time for the two.

"Ooh, this reminds me, Santana!" Rachel squealed excitedly, perking up from her position slumped on the other couch (she never had learnt to handle her alcohol). "Have you decided what you're going to wear to my opening night? After all, it's most important to look at one's best on nights such as these, and you don't want to be caught out if you happen to be included in any photos with me."

"Shut up, Berry," she replied shortly, her patience waning with the short diva. Rachel had somehow managed to relate nearly every conversation topic to her impending debut and only a sense of gratitude to Quinn for the past few months had prevented her from snapping.

"I was also wondering where you would like me to leave your tickets..."

"Rachel," Quinn cut in warningly, her eyes fixed on the developing scowl on Santana's face.

"...at the theatre, or would you prefer if I brought them here? I know you have quite a busy work schedule..." Santana clenched her fists, chewing on the inside of her cheek. "...so it would probably be easier if I brought them here. Plus, I'd hate for there to be a mix up at the box office and for you and Brittany to not receive your tickets. I don't know if you realise, but it's going to be very popular, so there will most likely be a lot of confusion in the office..."

"I said shut the fuck up, Berry!" she spat harshly, fists still tightly clenched as she glared at the other brunette. Quinn sat silently, her gaze flickering between the two, as though she was unsure who she needed to drag out the room. "Are you fucking incapable of talking about something that isn't your goddamn show, or are you really still that self-involved? Yes, I know how popular your show is going to be, because you keep fucking telling me about it!" She shrugged Quinn's calming hand off her shoulder as she pushed herself up and began to pace jerkily back and forth, the dam holding back her torrent of emotions finally broken.

"Christ, I'm happy for you, but do you ever stop to fucking think that it might be _hard_ for me to hear about your 'unparalleled' success? No, you don't, because if you did, you wouldn't fucking go on about it all the time...you wouldn't forward me every single damn article about it, or links to every interview you do! My inbox is full with shit from you about your play...articles from Quinn by her fancy journo friends...recordings of Mercedes' latest songs...invitations to film festivals to watch screenings of Artie's film, or videos of Mike's latest performances, and maybe, if I'm lucky, a message from my _girlfriend _from wherever the fuck she happens to be at the time! God, I might as well just have fifteen messages telling me I'm a failure, because that's what they're all saying anyway..." Hot tears were slipping down her cheeks by this point, but she made no move to wipe them away, her fists clenched too tightly at her sides. Rachel looked shell-shocked, her eyes wide as she sat frozen on the sofa, while Quinn had stood up, watching the Latina closely, but seemed wary of approaching her.

"San, you're not a..."

"Don't finish that sentence, Q," she interrupted bitterly, her gaze drifting from Rachel to land on a photo of herself and Brittany on the wall. "Don't finish it, because I don't want to hear you lying to me... We all know I'm a failure. I'm working three shitty jobs and spend most of my time being ordered around by rude customers, and I'm about as far away from being able to change that as Puckerman is from settling down. Poor old Santana Lopez, hey, can't get a singing gig anywhere, clinging to the coat tails of her talented, successful friends and girlfriend." She sighed heavily, anger seeping out of her body at the thought of Brittany, and shook her head, further tears slipping out. She opened her mouth to speak once more before closing it, shaking her head at the other two women before she spun on her heel and hurried for her bedroom; locking the door behind her, she slid down it to rest on the floor and pressed her face to her knees, hoping to stifle the sounds of her cries.

Back in the living room, Quinn sighed, dragging a hand though her hair as she stared in the direction the Latina had disappeared. Throwing her phone to Rachel with the instruction to call a cab, she set about cleaning the living room, internally debating whether to tell Brittany about her girlfriend's meltdown; she didn't want to worry the girl while she couldn't be there to do anything, but at the same time, if the situation was reversed...

"Cab will be here in five minutes," Rachel murmured softly as she shut the fridge, deciding she would tell Brittany, but not until the blonde returned. Nodding, she sighed at the unshed tears glistening her girlfriend's eyes and walked over to press a kiss to her forehead.

"It's not your fault, you were just the...the breaking point," she said gently, brushing back Rachel's hair. At her girlfriend's nod, she kissed her forehead again before heading towards the bedroom, knocking softly on the door to alert the Latina to her presence.

"Santana," she murmured, wincing as the muffled sound of a sob travelled through the door. "I love you, okay, I'm a bitch and I've known you since we were thirteen, so you know I'll always tell you the truth... You are _not_a failure, and I'll keep saying it until you believe me. You didn't let me think it in high school, so I'm not gonna let you now."

Santana choked slightly on her tears, the lump in her throat growing with her best friend's words. She made no attempt to reply, and heard Quinn leave after a few seconds, followed by the distant sound of the front door closing, but knew the blonde realised she appreciated it. Brushing away the worst of her tears, she pushed herself up and stumbled over to the bed, not bothering to change into her pyjamas before she slid beneath the covers, pulling them over her head as if that could block out the memory of the disastrous end to the night. At the back of her mind, the brunette knew Brittany would be waiting by her laptop for their daily call, but for the first time in four months, she was happy to avoid talking to her girlfriend.

* * *

The insistent sound of her buzzer echoed throughout the quiet apartment, drawing Santana's attention away from her phone as she typed out a message; she and Brittany had been trading texts all day, since Santana had sent her girlfriend an apology text on her way to work that morning. Clambering up from the position on the sofa she'd flopped into as soon as she returned home mid-afternoon, she walked over to her door and stabbed the answer button viciously.

"Who is it?" she asked tetchily (unsurprisingly, she'd earned less tips than normal that day).

"It's, uh, it's me...Rachel," came the crackly reply, a scowl immediately painting itself across Santana's face at the response.

"If you've come to give me the tickets for your show, Berry, you can fuck off..."

"No, I've not...I'm not here for that, I just...please, can you just let me up?"

She debated saying no, or better yet, just leaving the diva out in the cold to figure it out for herself, but decided that if she'd made the journey over here to apologise, she could at least try to hear her out. She had, after all, matured greatly since high school. Buzzing the main door open for Rachel, she finished her message to Brittany before pulling open the door at Rachel's knock, stepping aside silently to let the shorter brunette in.

"So..." she began slowly after Rachel, perched cautiously in the edge of the sofa, made no move to speak, hoping it would jolt her into revealing why she'd come.

"Oh, right...I, uh, I just came to say two things, Santana. Firstly, I wanted to apologise. You were right, it's been incredibly self-centred of me to keep on about my show...I was only doing it because I'm excited, but looking back I can see why it sounded like showing off. I never meant to make you feel inferior in any way, you have to know that...I don't think you're a failure, not at all. In fact, and I really hope I don't come across as condescending here, my respect and admiration for you has done nothing but grow over the past few years..."

Santana nodded, forcing a tight smile to show she accepted the apology. "And the second thing?"

Rachel mirrored her nod, pulling a sheet of paper from her pocket and setting it down on the coffee table. "Okay...remember senior year and how much fun West Side Story was?" At Santana's nod, she ploughed on. "Well, I found out that the director with whom I did my first ever show, Gregory Matheron, is doing a West Side Story revival of sorts, using all the same music, but adapting it to a modern setting. He was happy enough to send me through all the audition details when I mentioned I might know someone who was interested," she explained, pointing at the sheet of paper on the table.

"What are you trying to say?"

"I'm saying, Santana, you should audition. You were _fantastic_when we did it before and Matheron has a history of casting relative unknowns. I know you never planned to go into musicals, Santana, but...I think you should at least try. Who knows what might happen?"

Santana nodded dumbly, eyes darting between the paper and Rachel as she ignored the buzzing of her phone, before a thought occurred to her. "I...I can't, Rae, I have work..."

"Auditions are Monday afternoon, and I know you don't work then. I told him that you may turn up, but it's up to you, I'm not pressuring you. Just...promise me you'll think about it?" she asked, drawing her coat around her as she stood to leave. Santana was in shock, the possibilities offered by that scrap of paper racing through her mind. Yes, there was every chance nothing would come of it, but if Rachel thought she was good enough...

"Thank you," she muttered softly, drawing the shorter woman into a tight hug, pulling back a few moments later with a flush on her cheeks and a lump in her throat.

"Don't thank me...just think about it." Rachel smiled and walked to the front door, glancing briefly back at Santana before she left, closing the door quietly behind her as she left the Latina to contemplate the possibility of another chance.

* * *

**Author's note:** So, what do you think? Just one more part to go after this!


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **Still don't own it, unfortunately...

**Author's note: **I just wanted to say a massive thank you to everybody who's read, reviewed and favourited this story; it meant a lot to me, every time I saw a new email notification pop up in my inbox. Also, apologies this took so long to get to you. Life just got in the way, as it loves to do, and I came back to uni a day earlier than I planned to (and then I rewrote half of the chapter...). Anyway...enjoy!

* * *

'This is worse than the whale suit' Santana thought self-consciously, jaw clenching as she desperately fought the urge to fidget beneath the heat of the inquisitive looks being shot her way as she stood in the corner of the narrow hallway, waiting to be called in to audition. She could understand the curiosity, vaguely recalling Rachel mentioning (during one of her numerous stories about life as an aspiring Broadway star) that after her first few auditions, she began to recognise some of the actresses with whom she was competing for parts. It felt like she'd stumbled unwittingly into some secret society, reserved only for a select few; the calm radiating off the crowd crammed into the small space betrayed how normal a routine this was for them, whereas she was currently doing her best impression of a gazelle trying not to acknowledge that it's stumbled into a pack of lions.

She curled her toes inside her shoes, a technique she'd developed during cheer meets to stop herself nervously bouncing up and down, and stared blankly at the door at the end of the corridor, waiting for the casting director to appear and call in the next to audition. A small part of her had hoped, as she wriggled out from between a large sweaty man with more than a passing resemblance to Finn and a young couple she was sure would have no problem with sex in public to jump off the bus at her stop, that her name would be the first to be called, that she could get this over with as quickly as possible, prepare for her shift at the bar tonight, and forget she'd ever thought this would be a good idea.

She'd actually been surprisingly confident when she'd left her apartment, given how long it had been since she'd sung in front of anyone but Brittany, Rachel's words of encouragement and an impromptu 'good luck' video call from her girlfriend putting her in enough of a good mood that she actually _whistled _on her way to the bus stop. Yet, as she neared the audition space, she'd found that confidence slipping away with the bus' exhaust fumes. Any lingering remnants were destroyed the moment she stepped through the doors to be greeted by the crowd already waiting, many of whom probably filled choruses up and down Broadway every night.

Still, she'd rather work a week of shifts with Alyssa than show any signs of weakness, determined to ignore the whispers she could hear flitting around the room, asking 'who's the new girl?' and 'what does she think she's doing here?'.

If the last nine years had taught the Latina anything, it was that she was great at feigning confidence.

A sigh of frustration escaped her as a waif-like blonde was called in, dragging her hand through her hair as she glanced around the room. She'd already been there over an hour; Rachel had seemingly neglected to mention just how popular the auditions would be. Her fingers itched to reach into her bag and retrieve the ever-present pack of cigarettes, but it would be just her luck to step outside for a smoke and miss her name. She could guarantee that nobody would bother to fetch her. She wondered if this was how Brittany's dance auditions had been, before choreographers had begun clamouring to work with her. She wondered if she'd stiffened, simultaneously praying to melt into the wall behind and schooling her features into a calculated look of indifference as eyes roved over her, sizing up the competition. Had all her friends endured the same as they first set out on their careers, or had they still retained enough of their high-school naivety that the judgemental gazes did little to damage their confidence?

Her eyes flicked to the door as the casting director stepped outside once more, the thin blonde having hurried from the building several minutes before (the lingering high-school bitch within her had smirked at the look of distress on the girl's face). Maybe she was just looking for signs of her old life to comfort her in the tumult of her new one, but the brunette couldn't help but think he looked a little like a male Holly Holiday. She was so caught up in the comparison that she didn't hear her name the first time it was called; it was only as she caught sight of the man's lips moving that she tuned back in, jerkily stepping forward and nodding.

"That's me," she breathed, grabbing her bag from the floor before making her way through the tangle of bodies littering the hallway. Brittany's words appeared like a mantra in her head, flashing behind her eyes with each step, carrying her into the studio with her head held high.

She could do this.

She could do this.

She could do this.

* * *

She blew out a breath of smoke as she dropped her cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath her shoe as the bus home rounded the corner. Climbing on, she dropped into an empty seat gratefully, glad she wouldn't have to spend the ride holding her breath against the stench of man-sweat, and pulled her phone from her bag, fingers tapping out a brief message.

'_Nobody told me musical actresses are crazy enough to try and sabotage each other at audition...they actually make Rachel look sane. Anyway, don't think it went awfully, but doubt anything will come of it x_'

Smirking at the memory of the argument that had broken out as she made her way back out through the hallway (from what she understood through the perfectly pitched shrieks, someone's lucky bottle had been stolen...), she sent the message to Brittany, Quinn and Rachel, settling back into her seat as she gazed absently out of the window.

Barely a minute passed before her phone erupted with the opening strains of 'Songbird', Brittany's personalised ringtone since senior year (except during her relationship, when it had cycled through various heartbroken, angst-ridden songs she was embarrassed to admit she knew), and a smile snuck across her face as she answered.

"Hey, baby," she grinned, aware that she probably looked like a fool to the other passengers. "Shouldn't you be getting ready to go on?"

There was silence for a few seconds and Santana's heart plummeted, fearing that Brittany had once again sat on her phone (it had happened so often during the first few weeks she was away that she'd had to ask the blonde to stop leaving her phone in her back pocket, because it was driving her crazy), before her girlfriend's voice burst through the speakers.

"San, you just had your first Broadway audition, do you really think I have anything better to do?"

"It wasn't Broadway, Bri-..."

"Yes, I know it wasn't Broadway, but it sounds cooler to say that than off-Broadway...schematics," she interrupted quickly, determined to find out how her girlfriend's audition had gone.

"Semantics, babe," she corrected with a small chuckle.

"Yeah, yeah...so, how did it go?"

"Um, yeah, I don't think it went too badly, but I mean, you can never tell with these things. Plus, everybody else there auditioning was some fancy musical type, so they've got a lot to choose from...like I said, I doubt anything will come of it. Still, it was nice of Rae to set it up for me."

"C'mon, San, don't be like that. I bet you were fantastic," Brittany replied, warmth spreading through Santana at her girlfriend's encouraging tone. She could always count on Britt to be supportive. "Why don't you ask Rachel to speak to him, see if you're going to get anything?"

Santana shook her head, momentarily forgetting that Brittany couldn't see her ('Four more days' whispered the voice at the back of her mind; her excitement had been growing with every day crossed off the calendar, and she'd already cleaned the entire apartment in preparation). "No, I don't want him to think I'm playing favourites."

"That's fair, I suppose. So, when will you find out?" Brittany asked, raising her voice against the background noise of people rushing around to prepare for the show that night.

"He said they'd let us know as soon as possible, so God knows what that means...I mean, that could be his way of saying 'don't get your hopes up'." Santana bit her lip, holding back a sigh as she heard the faint sounds of someone calling Brittany's name; her usual bitterness at a premature ending to a phone call with her girlfriend was stymied slightly by her impending return, but she still couldn't help the stab of annoyance.

"Yeah, hang on..." she trailed off, turning her attention away from phone to see why she was being summoned. Santana couldn't really make out what was happening, the sounds of Brittany's conversation muffled as the blonde pressed the phone into her shoulder. "Apparently they want me to do a quick interview with a dance magazine over here, do you mind if I go?"

"No, babe, it's fine...it's not your fault that everyone wants a piece of you. Good luck tonight, love you," she murmured, keeping her tone as upbeat as possible.

"Love you too, San. Have a good shift tonight!"

She sighed, ending the call and slipping the phone back into her bag with a small smile, just in time to jump off the bus and run into the foyer of her apartment block as the first drops of rain spattered against the street.

* * *

Shaking off her umbrella viciously at the door, Santana stepped into the bar, a scowl painted across her face at the driving rain outside which had delayed the buses; she'd had to walk from home, spending half an hour battling through the wet just to make it to work on time. The brunette quickly made her way behind the bar and into the store-room, shedding her wet coat immediately as she danced around to warm herself up.

"You'd think after four years, you'd be used to the damn cold by now, Lopez."

Santana jumped, the teasing male voice ripping through the musty silence, and she twisted around in confusion to see where it was coming from. Grinning, she spotted the light spilling through the open door of the bar's office. She should have known...

"Good evening to you too, Rich," she chuckled, making her way past the piles of boxes to lean against the doorframe into the office and grin at the owner as he rested in his cracked leather chair ("Can't get chairs like this no more, Lopez."). She adored Rich and had done the from the moment he'd hired her, months shy of her 21st birthday, the older man quickly worming his way into her inner circle. He'd almost become a secondary father figure as the distance separated the Latina from her own. She had a lot of respect for him, in a way she rarely did for people so soon after meeting them (Will Schuester, for example, had never earned her respect while she'd been at high school), his dry remarks often lightening up even the dullest of shifts, and she struggled to understand how he could have a daughter like Alyssa. It was only with great difficulty that she'd restrained herself from asking if he's ever considered a paternity test.

"Just me and you tonight, kiddo, sure you can keep up?"

"With you, old man?" she smirked, feigning indifference as she glanced at her nails. "Easy. Say...there hasn't been anyone dropping out of Thursday, has there?" After her first year there, Rich had promised that if any act dropped out of a music night with three days or less to go, he'd let the brunette open. She couldn't stop herself from asking every week, a tinge of hope colouring her voice every time, despite repeatedly being told that nobody had.

Only once had the owner been able to offer her the possibility of a performance, only for it then to be snatched away the following day as the water pipes supplying the bar burst, flooding the entire place and forcing Rich to close for nearly a week.

She really did have all the luck.

Rich sighed, his gaze drifting to the mess of papers spread across his desk as he searched for the words to once again let the young Latina down. He hated doing it every week, hated to see the flicker of hope in her eyes fade out with the word 'no', but it had to be done. "I'm afraid not, Lopez. But, you know, maybe next week..." he trailed off with a weak smile, just as he did every week.

"Yeah, maybe," she echoed hollowly, growing weary of the routine.

"But, I _do_ have a free shift going this Friday. It's got your name on it, if you want it?"

Santana shook her head, the smile returning to her lips at the thought of Friday. "No can do, Rich...Britt's back on Friday."

"It's about time that girl stopped globetrotting and came back!" he laughed, the grin stretching across his lips matching Santana's own. "Well, obviously there's no way I'd expect you to come in on Friday, or Saturday for that matter...you'll be much too busy doing _other_ things, I imagine! But, make sure to bring her down whenever you guys have a free moment, she still owes me a dance contest."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Rich," she murmured, ducking her head to hide the spreading blush, even if she had been thinking along the same lines. "But, yeah, will do...even if we both know she'll let you win just 'cause you're my boss."

He laughed, shaking his head as he pushed himself up from the seat. "Let's face it, I'll need every advantage I can get. Now, come on...we're opening in half an hour, we should probably restock."

She nodded, following him back through to the store room as she stifled a laugh at the thought of gangly, uncoordinated Rich (unless it came to cocktail mixing) trying to take on her girlfriend in a dance-off. She knew there was a reason Monday was her favourite night to work.

* * *

Her lower lip felt raw as she wandered through the airport terminal, having been worrying it between her teeth throughout the entire taxi ride to the airport. She glanced at the clock as she settled into position in front of the doors that led from baggage reclaim, her hands tightly gripping a piece of white card that bore the absurdly cheesy 'The other half of my heart' (she'd smacked Quinn in the face with a cushion when she'd dared to poke fun at it that morning). It was the only productive thing the Latina had been able to do all day. Quinn and Rachel had come around early that morning to help her set up everything in the apartment for Brittany's return; but, while they'd busied themselves with tidying and hanging 'Welcome Home' banners, she'd been slumped on the couch, a goofy smile painted across her face at the thought of her girlfriend.

She glanced at the arrivals board, unable to stop herself from checking that Brittany's flight had arrived on time. As much as she loved her girlfriend, Santana really didn't want to spend three hours waiting in front of baggage reclaim because she didn't realise that the flight had been delayed. Obviously it hadn't been, as Brittany hadn't messaged her, yet she had been all but reduced to a nervous wreck by that point.

Her head shot up as the first people streamed out of the doors, a combination of weary businessmen, young travellers, and families. She held the sign up to her chest and grinned, her eyes searching through the crowd to find the tall blonde. Though, knowing Brittany, she'd probably wait until all the bags had been removed from the carousel, just to make sure everybody got their luggage.

"San!"

The Latina's eyes followed the sound, her smile growing even further as she saw Brittany, tears of relief pricking at the corners of her eyes at the sight. She watched as the blonde turned briefly to one of her fellow dancers, asking them to hold her case before she sprinted full pelt at Santana, throwing an apology over her shoulder to the businessman she nearly knocked over. Reaching the girl, Brittany gathered the brunette into her arms before twirling her around in a tight hug, leaving Santana onto her neck as she was spun in the air, carefree giggles echoing around the terminal as the sign fell to the ground.

It was several moments before Brittany set Santana back on the ground, her legs having gravitated to wrap around the blonde's waist, neither girl wanting to let go after so long apart. Pulling back to look up at her girlfriend, Santana slid her hand to cup her cheek, her thumb stroking back and forth gently, before guiding Brittany down into a kiss, fourth months of distance, separation and loneliness forgotten as their lips met.

Santana whimpered softly as Brittany eventually pulled, the dancer resting her forehead against the Latina's as her case was deposited next to them, the rest of her troupe murmuring soft goodbyes, not wishing to break the moment. Brown eyes locked onto blue as Santana traced her fingers down Brittany's neck, over her collarbones and down her arms before linking their fingers.

"God, I've missed you," she whispered, smiling warmly at the flush that spread across Brittany's cheeks at her words.

"Me too, San, me too. I love you so much...I just, I mean, how are you? Are you okay?"

Santana bit her lip, her eyes still fixed on her girlfriend's face. She wasn't singing for a living. She had to deal with rude customers nearly every day of the week. She couldn't really afford to shower the blonde with presents like she wanted to, even if she was thrilled with the simplest of gestures. She only had a faint hope that things would have any chance of changing soon...but she had Brittany. She had her girlfriend back in her arms, who would love her and support her no matter what.

"Yeah. I really am."

* * *

**Author's note: **Well, there you have it! I really hope you enjoyed it, and if you could take the time to leave a review, I'd be eternally grateful. What do you think of my first multi-chapter fic?

For my delightful reviewer, K: don't worry! I plan to write more set within this universe at some point, so I hope you stick around.


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